England's Italian Makeover
by Happy123
Summary: England gets an Italian makeover. And shaves his eyebrows. America/England


_Disclaimer: Hetalia characters are not owned by me._

_Notes: from two prompts: angel_shin's "England primping up his brows and America totally hates it" and bittergreentea's "Arthur and his Italian makeover."_

_Pairings: America/England_

**England's Italian Makeover**

_**(midday, hotel near L'Aquila, Italy)**_

Arthur wrenched the door to his hotel room open before violently slamming it shut behind him.

That stupid bloody idiot! Honestly, Arthur didn't know why he kept on voluntarily (really, he must be absolutely cracked) speaking to that dolt.

But what exactly did he expect? Just because America's new boss kept on talking about change, it didn't mean that Alfred was suddenly going to morph overnight into a responsible, sensitive individual (although that would be rather frightening).

But the prat could have at least picked up on a few manners!

_**(1 hour earlier, **__**G8 Conference room)**_

_As Alfred finished addressing the current global warming crisis, Arthur had to admit that he was rather impressed._

_Typically, the American would sprout off some random nonsense about creating a giant robot or hamburger bun "to patch up that big hole in the sky" (as Alfred would proudly proclaim, striking up his customary hero pose). But this time, the American had walked in with a stack of thoroughly prepared folders for everyone and a semi-professional (Arthur noted that his former colony still couldn't leave out the flashy transitions) slideshow presentation (he should have counted that last sparkly transition as a sign for the imminent disaster that was to follow)._

_The proposals Alfred had brought up weren't too bad, either. It looked as though that new president of his was finally getting through his thick skull, something that Arthur had never been able to do, even when America was younger…_

_Quickly shaking off the last vestiges of his jealousy, Arthur stood up and strode towards the taller blond. The rest of the nations had already scattered after Feliciano (as one of their privileges for being this year's G8 host, the Italian twins were allowed to decide the schedule) had called for a lunch break (the younger Italian was immediately seconded by Romano)._

_The British man cleared his throat politely. "Alfred – "_

_Hearing his voice, the American turned around, his face sporting a wide grin. "Hey Iggy! (Arthur winced) Did you like my speech? My boss, I mean, Obama – he says it's okay to call him that – went over it for a long time with me. But I," Here his mouth set into a determined line, "want to change for the better, new opportunities and all that – "_

_Suddenly he grinned at Arthur, "Don't worry, old man! We're going to be putting in these changes nice and slowly, so you don't have to worry about not being able to catch up with the times. Your eyebrows can still hang in there for a while longer!"_

_**(back at the hotel)**_

Arthur dropped his G8 folder onto the desk and sat down on the chair.

Alfred was right anyways; not only could Arthur not cook, his hair was a complete disaster and his eyebrows weren't even worth mentioning.

Arthur had tried to get a better haircut before (that bloody frog Francis had ended up cutting it back to its original bird's nest state) and even shaved off his eyebrows in a fit of pique (they grew back overnight). Nothing ever worked. He was still the same old, boring, unattractive, ugly-browed England.

And Alfred would never like him.

Sighing heavily, Arthur began to organize the papers on the table again. He just needed to pick up a few more official documents before going out to grab a bite to eat.

As Arthur was about to get up from his chair, he caught sight of a business card lying on the table. The words "The Plaza" were emblazoned on it, with the smaller print of "founded by Howard Aldridge, 1946" placed directly underneath them.

The British man felt his lips turn up slightly. Good old chap, that Howard.

After World War II, Howard had decided to remain in Italy (his cover wasn't broken, and he had met a rather lovely Italian woman). As the former spy had fallen in love with Italian fashions, he opened a store that sold Italian clothing. The modest establishment soon grew into a fully developed fashion district, "The Plaza," that boasted of everything from clothing stores to hairdressers and every conceivable component needed to fully provide for even the most fashion-obsessed customers.

Suddenly an impossible idea popped into Arthur's head. No bloody way, Arthur thought, with an edge of hysteria, clutching the card in his suddenly sweating palms. He must be absolutely bollocks, a complete nutter –

That's when Arthur found himself running out of his room like a madman.

_**(The Plaza)**_

Now that Arthur had actually reached The Plaza, he realized that it was all just a big mistake. What was he thinking, sprinting off like that?

The Briton gazed around at the multitudes of lovely Italians around him despondently. He could never be like one of them, with his horrible eyebrows and hair and –

"Sir?"

Giving his head a quick shake, Arthur turned around to see a fashionably dressed Italian stylist looking at him questioningly.

"Well," Arthur coughed slightly, "I, well…" Flailing around, the British man ended up just gesturing at himself wordlessly.

The Italian nodded in complete understanding, "Does sir want the complete works?"

"Er…yes, I suppose." Arthur added, hopefully, "This can be done within the hour, right?"

Arthur usually spent only fifteen minutes at the most tugging on his clothes and giving his hair a quick brushing, but judging by the expression on the Italian's face, this probably wasn't very conducive to his overall appearance.

"Well then," the Italian clapped his hands briskly after a brief pause. A huge crowd of attendants immediately swarmed around the two, pulling out tape measures and clucking softly to themselves. "we must get started immediately!"

Before he was completely whisked away, Arthur felt another rush of uncertainty run through him. He quickly shook it off. He was Arthur bloody Kirkland, for god's sake! He could bloody well change his appearance if he wanted to.

**HETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIA**

_**(2 pm, G8 conference room)**_

An uneasy silence hung over the room. Every now and then a nation would shuffle their papers in front of them or drum their fingers impatiently over the wooden table, but they would quickly stop when they caught the dark expression on America's face (even Ivan only asked Canada to become one with him two times instead of the usual five).

The lunch break had already been over for an hour, but England had yet to make an appearance. It was rather uncharacteristic of the ever-punctual man.

Clearing his throat slightly, Francis chanced a quick glance at the unnervingly still American, "Might I suggest, mon ami, calling the hotel to ask for l'Angleterre's whereabouts?"

Although the American was outwardly radiating irritation, Alfred was actually kind of hurt. He finally had gotten a new boss who wanted to change and who had actually inspired him to consider buying one of Japan's hybrid cars instead of driving his SUV around all the time. He had even tried to be more serious at the meeting like England wanted to be (he had given up his awesome powerpoint fonts!).

But before Alfred could even ask him out to lunch, the Brit had stormed off, looking as pissed off as he usually was. Alfred wished that Arthur could just notice him in a positive way instead of being annoyed at him all the time. Why couldn't the British man just smile proudly at him like he used to –

Turning to face Francis, Alfred began, "But – "

The rest of his speech was thrown out of the window (along with everyone else's working minds) when Arthur strode in.

Or more correctly, sauntered in. But no one was really paying too much attention to using the correct terminology because they were too focused on staring (or in some cases, leering) at the Brit in shock.

Arthur had ditched his customary brown suit for a more form-fitting black one that accented his slender figure quite nicely (if one could assume from the way that France was eyeing him). His once-messy hair was gelled back so it fell attractively away from his face (and was that an ahoge peeking out from the side?), and his tie actually wasn't plaid anymore.

But the most shocking thing that transfixed all the nations into silence was his eyebrows – or lack thereof. They were almost completely gone – except for two thin, normal-sized bands over each of his eyes.

As the rest of the nations continued to gawk at the British man, Arthur pulled out his seat, a slight smirk hanging over his lips, "I apologize for my late arrival, but could we please move onto business?"

Over the flurry of motion that resulted from his statement, most of the nations snuck fleeting glances at Arthur in admiration.

_I never knew that Arthur looked so well without those eyebrows of his! I wonder what Alfred thinks –_

_Under no circumstances was it permissible to be late–_

_Ve~! He looks so handsome!_ Feliciano shot a quick smile towards Ludwig to reassure the German of his own physical attributes.

…_I suppose that extra hour was well spent._

_Hmph. At least tha__t asshole acknowledges that Italian fashion is the best._

_Arthur-san really look__s quite well_.

_I must convince Arthur to become one with Russia immediately. Kolkolkolkolkol…_

_But how should I __persuade l'Angleterre to join me in my lovely rose-covered bathtub? Ah, I have it – the wondrous magic of alcohol…_

Arthur hummed slightly to himself, hiding a small satisfied smile as he focused on shuffling his folders around. That would teach his upstart former colony! Sneaking a glance upward, Arthur prepared to flash Alfred a quick smirk, but the odd, lost look on the taller nation's face stopped him.

Their eyes connected for a short moment before America (America!) broke contact and stared at the cluttered desk in front of him. He didn't look up again for the rest of the meeting.

Arthur returned to his papers, a little more subdued.

**HETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIA**

_**(**__**10 pm, Arthur's hotel suite)**_

Arthur stood in front of his mirror and stared at his reflection. What was so wrong with it that even an Italian makeover couldn't stop him from being repulsive to Alfred?

He sighed heavily, placing his forehead against the flat surface. At times he really felt like an old man. He was too tired to do this anymore. Why did he think that less than two hours in a fashion district – even one as famous as The Plaza – could turn him into someone that the American could like? Arthur swept an arm across his face hastily; he was not crying, damn it!

The Brit looked up as he heard someone knocking at his door. Heaving himself off of the mirror, Arthur trudged over to open it. It was probably another maid coming to deliver him a message from his boss (Gordon had already called earlier to berate him for being late to an important meeting – and from getting a fashion makeover, of all the things!).

Yanking the door open, Arthur came face to face with the person he had least expected (and didn't want) to be outside his door.

Alfred.

Oh bloody hell.

The American stopped Arthur's attempts to slam the door (curse that sodding wanker and his inhuman strength!) and strode into the room (the Brit winced as the door swung loudly shut behind him). Alfred stopped abruptly in the middle of the room and stared at his former caretaker. "What?" Arthur snapped when the silence started to become uncomfortable.

The taller nation made no reply but instead reached out and traced his fingers over Arthur's newly-normalized eyebrows. He kept on staring at the Brit.

"If you have something to say, just say it, you dolt!" Why did that loudmouth have to stand so close to him? Why didn't he say anything? Why –

As his mind frantically twisted around him, Arthur was completely caught off guard when Alfred suddenly enveloped him in a big bear-hug. Arthur tried to push the great oaf off but the American clung even more tightly to him.

"ilid r'rows fore." The American's voice was muffled as he mumbled into Arthur's hair.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I liked your eyebrows before."

"I…but you said that they were hideous, you wanker!"

"But I didn't mean it!" Alfred lifted his head slightly from Arthur's shoulder, his glasses flashing indignantly. "I really liked them! I really like – oh fuck this – I love you the way you are."

Arthur suddenly felt light-headed. Alfred liked him? Liked – loved – him? He shouldn't – he didn't – the Brit's thoughts were cut off as he realized that Alfred was slowly moving away from him.

Oh sod it.

Sighing softly as he felt his face turn a brilliant shade of red that would have impressed even Romano, Arthur muttered, almost inaudibly, "iloveyoutoo."

"What?" The American asked, the furrows on his forehead easing off. A small smile was playing on his face.

"I know you heard me, you prat! Don't bloody make me repeat it!"

"But Iggy! Please? Come'on!"

"No!"

Suddenly spotting the mischievous glint in the taller blond's eyes, Arthur stared at him suspiciously, "What are you – "

Alfred tackled him onto the bed and, ignoring the Brit's shrieks, proceeded to mess up his hair with his free hand.

"You sodding git! Do you know how long it took for them to – "

Arthur found himself cut off when Alfred stuck his tongue in his mouth. The American wasn't a very good kisser, but he was very, very enthusiastic and left the Brit rather breathless. Arthur opened his mouth to yell at Alfred for kissing him but stopped at the smothering expression in the American's darkened eyes.

"Nope," Alfred murmured, bending over Arthur – so close that the Brit could feel his breath on his skin, "but I do want to know how long it'll take me to get this outfit off of you."

It was, Arthur decided, as he let Alfred pull them together, a rather appealing question.

**HETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIA**

_**(8 am, Arthur's hotel **__**suite)**_

Arthur had awakened to find that his eyebrows had – yet again! – grown back overnight (it seemed like even the Italians couldn't stop those fuzzy beasts). Sighing softly, he glanced over at the naked back of his American lover lying next to him and smiled at him.

He should probably get up now, though; the meeting started in an hour. The Brit grabbed Alfred's shirt – it was going to have to be washed anyways – and put it on before wandering over to the mini-kitchen to get himself a cup of tea and turn the coffee machine on (the mix smelled rather like the shirt he was currently wearing) for the American.

Arthur had just finished off his cup and was getting up to get himself another when a thumping noise made him look up to see Alfred stumbling in and plopping himself down on the table.

"Good morning to you, too," Arthur said dryly, before placing a cup of coffee near him.

A low grunt emulated from the lump and a hand emerged from it to grasp at the coffee. Arthur rolled his eyes but without the edge of derision he would have normally infused into it.

"Morning." Ah, the caffeine must finally be kicking in – "…your eyebrows are back."

Arthur froze and felt a sudden surge of uncertainty. Had Alfred really meant it when he said that he liked his eyebrows? It had been a rather long day yesterday, and Alfred hadn't seen them when they were engaged in certain strenuous activities on the bed, so what if he changed his mind when – or if – they tried to spend a night together again?

A hand reached up to cup his chin. Arthur snapped his gaze back towards Alfred, who was suddenly an inch away from his face. The American, gently tilting Arthur's head down, kissed each of his eyebrows softly (Arthur shivered at the touch) before regaining eye-contact with the Brit.

"I love you," Arthur didn't know why those words sprung out of his mouth but whatever embarrassment he felt was quickly overshadowed by the way those baby-blue eyes lit up.

"Aww, Iggy!"

Whatever softness Arthur still retained rapidly evaporated.

"You ignorant sod, stop calling me that! And – "

Alfred, displaying his typical selective hearing, set down his coffee and swung Arthur into his arms, bridal-style, before sauntering off towards the bedroom again.

"Let me go, you dolt!"

Alfred leaned in to whisper in Arthur's ear, "But seeing you in my shirt is so hot, Iggy! And" he brushed lightly over Arthur's eyebrows (the Brit moaned slightly), "I want to experiment more with this."

_(author collapses in exhaustion/embarrassment and must go do her homework now)_

**Notes:**

The 35th G8 summit took place in L'Aquila, Italy.

Howard is the name of the British spy from this comic strip: ..

Yes, Arthur's eyebrows are erogenous!


End file.
